


Like Clockwork

by preeteevee



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Aromantic, Asexual Character, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexuality, Canon Gay Relationship, Canon Trans Character, Death, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Family Fluff, Female Friendship, Feminist Themes, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Graphic Violence, Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Magic, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Other, POC Protagonist, POV Female Character, Pansexual Character, Polyamorous Relationships, Prejudice, Protective Siblings, Racism, Sexism, Sibling Bonding, Steampunk, Strong Female Characters, Trans Female Character, Trans Lesbian, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, pansexual protagonist, shit there's a lotta bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:21:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preeteevee/pseuds/preeteevee
Summary: this is an og of mine, been edited a few times but still needs a lot yEet. lemme know what you think thotties.~Patrick, like any other self-endangering, yet still alarmingly-adveturous teen living in a post-comminust society, is...less than satisfied with his life. When, on a whim one morning, he decides to stowaway on a docking Pirate ship, things don't turn out exactly as expected. See, there's this soul of a boy that wont stop antagonising him, a fiery Pirate with an obsesive love for her sword, and an unlikely adventure that will leave the trio questioning what it means to be alive. And what it means to live otherwise.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Prologue ~

The breath of angels roiled over a strawberry sky, kissing lazy sunbeams and swallows’ wings and the steam trails that climbed up from the balloon into the afternoon air.

 

Oliver leant across the basket, adjusting the burners so that the envelope of the balloon filled again with air, expanding like a sponge in water. “We’re going higher,” he called out to the girl opposite him, before retaking his seat in the corner of the basket, pulling out a scrap of parchment.

 

“You’re still writing, Olive?” she enquired, tossing a sand bag from the rim of the basket. She dusted non-existent dirt from her palms, before taking a seat in front of Oliver on the floor, crossing her legs over, and planting a hand under her chin.

 

“I’m not reading it to you,” Oliver said, rummaging in his back pocket for a quill. What he pulled out was a splinter of an instrument: the handle had been snapped off, leaving a few tufts of the lost feather tucked into the remaining stump, and a stream of ink trickling down to the tip.

 

The girl stuck out her bottom lip. “Oh, why not Olive? It’s not like we have anything else to do!”

 

“We’re on an adventure, Aple,” he scorned, throwing her a wink. She caught it in her eyes, squinting back at him with a half-smile chiselled into her sharp jaw. “There’s plenty to do.”

 

“Supposedly _we’re_ on an adventure,” Aple sighed, knotting strands of caramel and gingernut hair around her fingers. “Yet _he’s_ the one who opened a heckdecking circus, Olive!”

 

“I heard it was a theatre, Aple,” Oliver mused, setting the nib of his quill onto the parchment, scratching a ghost of his name several times before discarding the tool over the side of the basket in a grunt. “Some sort of mystical performance.”  
  


“Close enough, Oliver,” Aple cried, gripping at the toes of her boots and pulling them off like splinters, laughing at the odd shape it left the socks on her feet. “Grace in space, I’m going mad.”

  
“We’ll land within the next few hours,” Oliver promised, leaning down to take Aple’s chin in his hand. She turned into his touch, eyelids flickering. “I promise. Maybe you’ll get use of that bow of yours.”

 

“Maybe,” Aple said with a chuckle, leaning back so that her head was parallel to the sky, breathing in the sunshine like oxygen. “It really is paradise up here, Olive.”

 

“Quite.” Oliver smiled, resisting the urge to stroke back Aple’s hair, to tuck it behind her ear or braid it in streams of brass and marigold.

 

A commotion below brought Aple’s eyes snapping open. “What was that?”

 

Following her movements, Oliver arose from his seat, and leant across the rim of the basket, gasping at the scene below.

 

“Is that…?”

 

Oliver nodded. “Yes. Atlantica.”

 


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ Chapter One ~

The unforgiving London smog dusted the cobbled streets in a sickly shade of grey. A rather similar shade of grey to the sky. And the clouds. And the people pushing past each other, faces hard-set as they gritted their teeth, snatched their possessions closer, and squinted through the harsh veil of grey on their way to work. 

 

Patrick frowned at the street. 

 

It was grey, no surprise. Cold, too. 

 

He turned around and grabbed a yellow scarf off the coat rack behind him, then second-guessed himself and shoved it into his satchel, instead reaching for a woollen, black scarf to wrap around his neck. 

 

Not that he was embarrassed by his trusty, sunflower, silk scarf, never. It was just...he liked to blend in. It was hard enough having hair the colour of street lamps and copper wire. So, while outside, while in public, he felt more comfortable with the black scarf. 

 

“Patrick!” A voice. Shrill and rushed, syllables tripping over each other in their haste to be heard. “Are you off to work?”

 

“Yes, mum.” 

 

“Right,” his mother replied from somewhere within the apartment. “Can you tell Mr Mitchells you’ll be off next week for the funeral?”

 

“No, mum,” Patrick sighed. “He doesn’t believe me.”

 

He could sense her grimacing. “Well what does he expect, a bloody coffin preview?”

 

“No, mum.”

 

Patrick shut the door behind him, and shrugged down into his dad’s scarf. It was bloody cold outside.

 

He decided to hurry, which seemed to have an effect opposite to desired, as it resulted in frosty wind being forcefully pushed in his face, biting at his nose as if it were chocolate. 

 

Brushing the water droplets off his face, he glanced up to the sky, letting a soft smile play across his lips. He passed the office. He was going somewhere different.

  
  


*

  
  


Everyone had heard the news. 

 

It was kind of a big deal in a city that never changed - a ship coming in. Word had it that it was only docking for a couple of days, and that was last night after mass. 

 

This was Patrick’s only chance. Otherwise he’d be working as a chimney sweep for his whole life. 

 

That was no life.

 

He clawed at the thin fabric of his coat, desperately reaching for a handful of yellow scarf, letting the warmth of the cloth dance around his tingling fingertips. His skin sighed in gratitude, and for a moment, he forgot about the flakes of white nibbling through the dense air like flies. 

 

He turned a corner, and there it was.

 

A flawless vessel of carved rosewood crowding the sky, demanding attention in the wind. The sails were black silk, trailing lines of knitted silver thread, the poles made of polished, black marble. At the back of the ship were several storeys of cut-glass windows held in place by rosewood pillars. There were balconies and carved doors on the front of each level, and at the foot of the structure, a sleek square of wood held to the deck by rusted, iron hinges.  _ A hatch _ , Patrick thought.  _ Perfect _ . 

 

It was a ferocious vessel, the sheer length of it alone enough to draw attention from the passers-by on the promenade. Some whistled, some muttered about how having a glass hull was impractical on rough tides. 

 

Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off it.

 

“Cap’in, the rest of the crew wants a quick break to the pub before we set sail again, would ya-”

 

“So they haven’t had their fill of night women already?” 

 

Patrick became rigid behind the low-burning street lamp on the edge of the promenade.

 

The two voices were startling in contrast: the first a classic sea-Pirate’s dialect - rough and common and spitting half-vowels across the pavement. The Captain’s voice was as smooth and elegant as the silk sails, yet as cutting as the poles reaching up into the sky like daggers. 

 

Patrick felt inferior in the presence of such a voice.

 

“Nah, Cap’in, it’s not the night birds, it’s that barmaid at  _ The Crunchin’ Hen _ ,” the first voice responded. “She got tats like globes, she ’as, pouring right out from ’er-”

 

“Enough, Vlad.” Patrick held his breath at the reintroduction of the Captain’s voice. “We do not talk about ladies in such a manner, do we?”

 

There was a slight pause. Patrick wished he could see what was happening, but his trembling knees kept him rooted behind the lamp. 

 

“Uh, no, Cap’in, we don’...she’s a good one,” Vlad sighed. “She’s sweet, bless ’er, ’bout a couple years older than your girl, maybe-”

 

“And would you involve yourself in such language surrounding my daughter?”

 

“God, no, Cap’in,” Vlad exclaimed. “No, never Cap’in, I’d never, not your kid...I’d never-”

 

“Then next time you refer to a young lady’s ‘tats’ as being like ‘globes’,” the Captain repeated in distaste. “You might as well be referring to my daughter for the punishment you’ll get.”

 

“Yeah Cap’in! Sorry Cap’in! Never again Cap’in!”

 

“Oh, get back on board, you blathering fool, we’re heading for Elchas in half an hour,”

 

“Yessir, on it, sir...Cap’in, I mean, I meant Cap’in!”

 

Patrick scoffed: the thing about Pirates was that they were from another land, they didn’t often behave as a gentleman ought to. Then Patrick thought of the eloquent manners of the Captain, and wondered where he’d learnt that from. It certainly wasn’t from Elchas. 

 

“Wait.” Patrick processed the conversation he’d witnessed. “Half an hour? Shoot! Mother hen! They’ll leave without me!”

  
  


*

  
  


Patrick swore in a colourful tongue, the place was swarming with filthy Elchasians. Dirty Pirates, that’s all they were. 

 

Now then, it seemed his mother’s influence was rotting his judgement: Patrick couldn’t deny his fascination at the humble denizens of the sea, the men who rode high water on stronger wood, and who counted the colour of stars by night. 

 

“Dirty Pirates,” his mother had sworn. “That’s all they are. Filthy Elchasians.”

 

His mother swore a lot.

 

But this wasn’t a time to be pondering about his mother’s fragile state of mind, this was a time to be worrying about the clammering, leather-clad Pirates stalking across the wooden platforms of the ship. Not that Patrick was going to let them stop him,  _ oh no _ .

 

He just needed to figure out a way around them.

 

“Captain.” A smug voice caught the attention of the entirety of the crew in a single word.  _ What a dick _ . Although, Patrick couldn’t really afford to mock the new arrival, not when they were providing him with such a sweet distraction. 

 

He gritted his teeth like his father had told him, pulled the black scarf over his distinct, orange hair, and clambered aboard the port of the ship, trying to look inconspicuous. 

 

“Yes, Eva?” Patrick heard the rich, authoritative voice of the Captain reply, as he opened the hatch on the deck, and began descending the wooden steps. 

 

_ Thanks Eva _ , Patrick thought casually over his shoulder.  _ You really saved my ass.  _

  
  


*

  
  



	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ Chapter Two ~

Inside the ship was quiet. Only the sounds of distant gushing water could be heard through the broad, rosewood walls. 

 

Patrick sighed, pulling out one of the dozen or so barrels from one corner of the room to sit down on. They were strong enough, luckily, to hold his weight, and wide enough for him to pull his legs up and cross them without overbalancing. 

 

Then he just had to wait. 

 

He assumed the ship would be setting sail soon, due the conversation he’d overheard. But what if he was wrong? What if they’d all decided to go back to the pub to get a better look at Maria’s ‘globes’. (He knew her name because they’d been close as children, Patrick and Maria had grown up in the same education house. Miss Bunts had been their learning mother. They’d both hated her equally.)

 

What if he wasn’t really on a ship and this was all a dream? He wouldn’t put it past himself, he’d dreamt about stowing away on a Pirate ships enough times for it to be a logical suggestion.

 

He didn’t even know what the time was. 

 

Patrick reached into his coat, pulling out a pocket clock. It wasn’t anything fancy, something that he scraped to afford with a few months worth of his weekly stipend. The clock face, itself, was wooden. “That shows it’s been made cheaply,” his mother had said. Patrick didn’t mind, he liked wood. It reminded him of Pirate ships and swashbucklers. 

 

_ 9.30 _ .

 

He snapped the pocket clock shut. Everyone knew that ships left dock at 9.45. In fifteen insignificant minutes he’d be sailing far away from the city life, and closer towards his perpetual dream of freedom.

 

Only fifteen minutes.

 

Patrick laughed. 

 

However, it turned out that when your fate was hanging on it, fifteen minutes didn’t exactly pass quickly. Patrick nibbled on his nails, and wrung his fingers around the scarf, and wished he’d worn his yellow one and then was grateful he hadn’t. Soon even fidgeting wasn’t enough to keep his mind occupied, so he stood in the middle of the room, assessing possible pastimes. 

 

Beer? He was sure that’s what the barrels held. Cold, cool beer. The drink of Elchasians. Not rum. Not everyone was a cliche like him. 

 

“Cheers, chumps.” Patrick raised a fist to the air in salute, before kneeling down in front of his previous seat, twisting the metal mechanism clasped around the circumference of the barrel. It clicked pleasantly before unlatching, allowing the top of the barrel to split away from the body, and providing a wide opening for Patrick’s hands.

 

He stuck his tongue out one side of his mouth, and reached into the barrel, cupping the smooth liquid in his palm. He pulled it out slowly, and assessed the contents for a moment, before lifting the alcohol to his mouth. 

 

It was a sweet beer. Softer and more mellow than the usual pint served at  _ The Crunchin’ Hen _ , no offense to Maria. Beer in London Town was tangy and bitter and had probably been washed across Old Man Mason’s arsehole. Elchasian beer was fine and fruity, like rich, creamy nectar. Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, taking a moment to breathe in his situation, before reaching for another handful. 

 

Ting.

 

His hand hit something hard, knocking it against the interior metal rimming of the barrel. 

 

_ Odd _ .

 

He grasped around blindly in the barrel for a moment, before catching it again. The metal thing. Patrick pulled the the miscellaneous object out, holding it by its chain. It was retrieved easily enough, there was no puzzle or secret lock he had to crack. Just an object floating in a beer barrel.

 

Frowning, he held it up to the candlelight of the cabin. A clock. A pocket clock. 

 

_ Strange _ .

 

It was magnificently designed; unlike his cheap, wooden clock, it was built of intricate layers of metal sheeting: patterns of lace and mechanical clockwork, all in shades of bronze, rust and ebony. The casing itself was thicker and bolder, large sweeps of dusty bronze, arching and dancing in ornate curls. In the centre of the casing was a hole the size of a tuppence, large enough to reveal the faded, roman face below, consisting of squid ink numerals over sepia-tinted marble, which was laid atop the internal clockwork.

 

In the centre of the pocket clock, poking out from the cogs, at the convergence of the hands, was a switch. The size made it barely noticeable.

 

Patrick ignored his best instincts, took the switch between his fingernails, and turned. 

 

Click. 

 

“Turtle tuckers! What happened?”

 

Patrick dropped the clock.

 

“T...turtle tuckers?” was all he could muster in response. Logical reasoning: he had never found a pocket clock. He’d drunk too much beer. He was hallucinating. Or sleeping. Or both.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear, I just…” 

 

Patrick rubbed his eyes with limp hands. Everything was cuddled in a haze. 

 

There was a boy in the room. 

 

A disgustingly attractive boy, not that Patrick should have been focusing on that aspect, stood in the centre of the cabin, where no one had been 3 seconds prior. 

 

Holy shucks.

 

“I’m just a little confused,” the boy continued, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

“You’re not the only one.” Patrick felt the urge to laugh, though knew if he let himself, tears might just hijack the ride. 

 

“How did I get here?” the boy demanded, straightening out his spine so that he towered even more over the still-crouching Patrick. 

 

“I don’t know,” Patrick sighed, glaring up at Mysterious Apparating Boy. “But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you with that attitude.”

 

“Okay.” The boy pressed his thumb and third finger to the bridge of his nose. “Why not, peasant?”

 

“Peasant?” Patrick must have been dreaming. This couldn’t actually be happening. “I’m sorry, why are you attacking me right now?”

 

“I don’t have any weapons drawn.”

 

“Metaphorically.”

 

“That’s not a metaphor I’ve heard before.”

 

“Well I’ve never heard ‘turtle tuckers’ before, either.” Patrick stuck his nose out. “Where are you from, the Renaissance?”

 

The boy frowned. After a moment of eyebrow-furrowing action, he brushed a hand down the side of his jacked, before reaching it down to Patrick, arm stiff as a sail rod. “Take it.” He nodded towards his hand, tutting when Patrick took it. 

 

Mr Mysterious Angsty Douche pulled Patrick to his feet, probably so he could attack him  _ with weapons _ this time. Patrick imagined him snatching a glove from his jacket pocket and brandishing Patrick’s cheek with it, declaring a duel. Patrick snorted. 

 

“Why are you laughing?” Angst Boy was still annoyingly taller that Patrick, he had the kind of thin physique of a gentleman tucked under the cherry red suede of his coat. The kind that his mother would have swooned over, had she been 20 years younger and not in a current state of mourning. 

 

Patrick shrugged. “You’re strange.” 

 

“And you’re rather vexing,” Douche-Mc-Douche noted, brushing down his silk waistcoat. “But what of it?”

 

“Why are you so irritable?” Patrick dropped Annoying Turnip’s hand. 

 

“The correct term would be ‘petulant’.” Irritated Tosser Boy ran his now-free hand through his hair. It caught the light, the colour of old, gold pennies. The colour of the pocket clock on the floor. “And that’s only because you’re so irri _ tating _ .”

 

“You don’t know me,” Patrick defended, crossing his arms. 

 

“Well observed, Jonny.”

 

“My name’s Patrick,” Patrick spat, kicking the pocket clock with his heavy boots. He’d prepared himself for snow. 

 

“How delightful to meet you, Patrick.” The boy held out his hand, condescending tones rolling off his sophisticated tongue. _ Complete tosser _ . “My name is Francis Elliott Morgan, the Junior Captain of this great vessel: Atlantica.”

 

“Patrick Glass,” Patrick muttered, shaking Francis’ hand, making sure to dig his nails in a little. “You’re a bit uptight, aren’t you, Francois?”

 

“It’s Francis,” Francis said curtly, tearing his hand back. 

 

“Same difference.”

 

“No,” Francis corrected. “No, they’re quite different names. Francois is a French-originating name, it was my grandfather’s name, whom I was christened after.”

 

“So you _ are _ called Francois.”

 

“No,” Francis repeated, a little more annoyance quipping the edges. “Francis is the English variation. Since I am English. Since my father is English, my...my father-”

 

“No one cares, Francois.” Patrick picked up the pocket clock and tossed it between his hands. “You’re a posh bugger and I’m a...what did you call me? Right. I’m a peasant. Just a humble peasant.”

 

“I’m not posh,” Francis retorted. “I’m a Junior Sea Captain.”

 

“Right, Elchasians,” Patrick mocked. “Dirty Pirates.”

 

Francis looked about ready to whip his glove out when his eyes locked onto the light in Patrick’s hands. “Where did you get that?”

 

Patrick held the pocket clock up, raising both his eyebrows. “This?”

 

“Yes, that,” Francis rushed over to Patrick’s side, grabbing the clock from his hands. “It’s mine.”

 

“It’s yours?”

 

“Yes it’s mine, you dimwit,” he snarled, and tapped twice on Patrick’s forehead. “Are the candles not lit up here?”

 

Patrick ignored him, focusing on the reveal of new information. “What do you mean it’s yours?” He pressed. “I found it at the bottom of a beer barrell.”

 

“Well, it wasn’t exactly mine.” Francis’ eyes cut away. “It was my father’s. I wonder how it got in there.”

 

“I think you came out of it,” Patrick whispered, voice shivering in the tense air. “I mean. I pressed the switch and then you were here and yelling at me.”

 

“Are you dumb?” Francis questioned. “Are you actually, physically an imbecile?”

 

“That’s not a word that’s heard in civilised conversation,” Patrick replied, tightly. 

 

“So you can speak like a functioning human, congratulations, dimwit.” Francis rolled his eyes, and moved to perch on the edge of a barrel, appearing rather like a bird on a branch. “So I came out of a small clock? Blooming brilliant. I mean, that’s just fantastic, isn’t it? I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where my family is. I don’t know what year it is. I don’t know how I got into that bloody clock in the first place, or what has happened since I-”

 

“Francis.” Patrick moved forwards, cutting Francis’ rambling off with a firm hand to the shoulder. Or so he’d planned. One minute he was motioning to comfort this strange new annoyance, the next he was falling into the barrels, hand first. “Shuckled uncles!”

 

“Patrick?” Francis jumped back at the collision, and made to help Patrick to his feet, only for his hands to pass right through him. “Patrick…”

 

“Francis.” Patrick looked up at the wobbling, translucent figure. “I think you’re a soul.”

  
  


*

  
  


“But you touched me,” Francis whispered. His fingers ran over each other, catching at intervals, and then falling into the pattern of fidgeting again. 

 

“Oh, don't say it like  _ that _ ,” Patrick mused. “It's not like we cuddled under the stars, Potato Head.”

 

_ What  _ had he just called him? The nerve of peasants these days. 

 

“Excuse me?” Francis gripped his nails into the palms of his hands, relaxing a little into the pressure. “Potato…?”

 

“Oh, lighten up, Francois.” Patrick winked. Francis felt like redirecting his nails into Patrick's complacent expression. “Although, since you don't have any internal mass, now, that might present a challenge…” 

 

“I would never engage in romantic affairs with you,” Francis hissed through his glare. How could one silly little boy be so...infuriating. “Just so you know, poof.”

 

Patrick raised his eyebrows. He seemed to falter for a moment, before responding with words heavily-weighted. “I think the term you're looking for is vexing,” he said. 

 

That caught Francis off guard.

 

“What?”

 

“The way you were frowning, I could tell, I,” Patrick muttered. “I could tell you were thinking about me-”

 

“I most certainly was not thinking about you-”

 

“Not,” Patrick cut in. Francis felt for a moment as if his garments had been cast aside, and shrugged back from Patrick’s cool gaze. “In that way.”

 

A heavy pause hung over the cabin like a luxuriant tapestry. Or the mast of a pirate ship. 

 

“I  _ meant _ I could tell you were...annoyed with me,” Patrick sighed, tearing the analogous fabric with words sharper than a sailor’s foil. 

 

“Vexed.”

 

“Vexed.”

 

“Right.” Francis shifted his weight to either side several times, before deciding to still his discomfort by taking a seat. “May I sit on these barrels?”

 

Patrick's nose scrunched. “Y...you may.”

 

“I wasn't asking for your permission,” Francis rolled his eyes at the incompetence of his newly-acquired companion. “I was asking after the safety of the structures, dimwit.”

 

“Stop talking like that,” Patrick announced. It was more of a demand than a plea. 

 

Francis paused above the seat. “Like what?”

 

Patrick turned away, avoiding Francis’ eyes. What a strange, little creature. “Like you're better than me-” 

 

“I am better than you.”

  
  
  


“You talk as if you're from another world and...it's beautiful, it really is,” Patrick continued with a line carved between his brows, a chip amongst stone. “But I'm beginning to get tired of feeling like I'm inferior to you.”

 

“Patrick-”

 

“Like  _ you  _ think I'm inferior to you.”

 

For once, Francis had nothing to say. 

 

No quipping remark.

 

No degrading joke.

 

Nothing. 

 

“Patrick...I didn't-”

 

“It doesn't matter,” Patrick rushed. “What's more important is the fact that...you're a  _ ghost _ -”

 

“ _ Patrick _ -”

 

“Sorry.” He narrowed his eyes, but Francis noticed the dimples creasing the upturned corners of his mouth. Patrick was  _ mocking _ him. “Soul.”

 

“You absolute-”

 

“A bodiless,  _ incorporeal _ -”

 

“I knew we could never work together,” Francis spat, turning away from Patrick. His hands were shaking like an unsteady ocean. He tried to clutch them in fists at his sides, but you could never calm a river. Not once it had started to flow.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Francis turned around, unwilling at first, but felt all his anger flood from his body at the sight of Patrick's drooping eyes. Sometimes rivers flowed, sometimes they flowed away. 

 

“I needed a Sea Captain.” Francis closed his eyes. “For a mission. Not that you'd be interested-”

 

“I am.” Patrick's complexion reddened at his haste. “I mean...yes, I am.”

 

Francis narrowed his eyes. His words came out in more of a drawl than he had intended. “You're a Sea Captain.”

 

Patrick saluted. “Captain Patrick Glass, reporting for duty.”

 

“No.” Francis shook his head. “No, that's said  _ to  _ the Captain. Only a Junior Sailor would say that-”

 

“Or Atomic Betty,” Patrick grinned. His dimples popped out, as commanding as the sun. Francis couldn't deter his gaze from the rays. “Just saying.”

 

“I told you this wouldn't work.” Francis raised his hands. He didn't want to fight, he hadn't bought his foil. “I'm sorry you're just too…”

 

“Excited?”

 

“Immature.”

 

Patrick swallowed. “Me? Immature? I'm a  _ qualified  _ Sea Captain!”

 

“Patrick.” Francis had been saying that a lot lately. He wondered at what point a name lost its meaning. 

 

“You said you're desperate.” Patrick pointed at Francis. Since when had this become an accusation? 

 

“No, I said I was in need.” It wasn't the first time he'd had to defend himself in front of Patrick this morning, and exhaust was clouding him. He just needed a breath. But the air in the cabin was so tight.

 

Patrick stopped jumping around and let his finger fall to his side. The candlelight from the sconce above threw little watery lines of sunshine across Patrick's copper hair. His eyes, the colour of rust, seemed to fill with the same light. The same wonder. “Will there be treasure?”

 

Francis choked. Where had that come from? The answer was simple. _No_. _Yes_. _I_ _don't_ _know_. He felt compelled to spill untruths. His father would have been ashamed of him.

 

His father…

 

“Y-yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “It's a Pirate adventure, of course there will be treasure.”

 

“I knew that,” Patrick grinned. “We’re going on a treasure hunt.”

 

“Lead the way, Captain.” Francis gestured to the steps leading onto the deck. “To the helm.”

  
  


*

 


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ Chapter Three ~

“Which way’s the helm again?” Patrick attempted to ask in the guise of a joke, laughing around the edges until Francis shoot him a distasteful look. Ugh,  _ tosser _ . 

 

_ Helm, helm, helm _ , Patrick scrambled in his brain for the little snags of knowledge he’d learnt from swashbuckling novels about sailing a Pirate ship. 

 

The helm held the wheel, so surely it must be…“At the front!” Patrick exclaimed, souring at the bitter look Francis-Mc-Dickface shot him. Thought he was so clever, eh? Patrick would show him. “Of course the helm is at the front,” Patrick said, running up to the platform, which held a large, wooden wheel attached by a clockwork mechanism to a holster screwed to the deck. Being a Pirate was complicated. 

 

“Yes, the helm is at the bow of the ship.” Francis yawned, leaning against the wall to Patrick’s right. Of course, an arrogant-eddie like him  _ would _ act so nonchalantly in the face of possible danger, depending on how good Patrick was at driving. Sailing. Sailing?

 

“Okay, to find this...treasure…” Francis coughed. “We’re going to need to coast around all of the local islands- do you hear something?” 

 

“What?” Patrick snapped, flicking his gaze to the hatch in the centre of the deck. Nope, he’d definitely locked it. “No, I hear nothing.”

 

“You sure it’s not the crew, are they…” Francis strolled over to the hatch, bending down to get a closer look. “Are they trapped in here?”   
  


“They were getting on my nerves-”

 

“Patrick.”

 

“Um.” Patrick desperately scrolled through charming lines to win his escape from the situation. Maybe a little flirting would distract Francis enough for him to learn the most likely locations of the treasure. “So coasting...how does one...where do we find these islands-”

 

“You’re not a Sea Captain, are you?”

 

Patrick dared to look over at Francis, who was crouched over the hatch. Maybe flirting could still work.

 

Patrick let one eye fall into a wink, while trying to mutate his voice into something that could have possibly been considered seductive. “Define...Sea Captain.”

 

“Turtle tuckers, Patrick!”

 

“What?”

 

“We’re trapped out here, and they’re trapped in there,” Francis cried, standing back up. “Grace in space, how am I supposed to find my f...my fortune? Treasure. The, um, the treasure.”

 

“Well, I don’t know how to sail,” Patrick admitted, receiving a snort from Francis. Patrick gritted his teeth, and continued through a clenched jaw. “But you do.”

 

“But I can’t touch anything!”

 

“But I can,” Patrick smirked, letting the information sink in. After a few seconds, Francis’ frown cleared, and he held an expression similar to that of a lost rabbit. 

 

“So we both need each other,” Francis concluded, throwing his head into his hands, as if such a thought turned his brain to poisonous berries. “How are we going to achieve... _ this _ without the crew noticing? You know, the  _ real  _ crew.”

 

“Easy,” Patrick claimed, rocking back and forth on his heels. “We sail at night. You teach me on the job, starting tonight.”

 

“But what about now?” Francis drawled, and Patrick wondered if the boy ever got bored of asking banal questions in such an aggravating tone. Sometimes people just needed to  _ trust  _ Patrick, and not quip a complaint at every hurdle he might-have-accidentally-created-for-himself.

 

“Now?” Patrick let the word play over his tongue, enjoying the theatrical tension he conceived with the suspension of his words. “We hide.”

  
  


*

  
  


“I can’t believe you have me hanging from this ship by my feet.”

 

“Well,” Patrick said, grunting as he adjusted the grip he had on the wall of the ship. “Technically, you’re hanging by your ankles.”

 

“Shut up,” Francis hissed, his hair falling down like bronze curtains as he hung beside Patrick. Wrapped around his ankles was the chain of the pocket clock, which had then been kindly tied, by Patrick, to one of the beams in the short, outer wall of the ship. A perfect plan executed perfectly.

 

“Can you see anything?” Patrick called down, only to be hushed by the irritable gremlin hanging next to him. Patrick scowled, but continued in cautious tones. “Well, you’re the one with your face pressed against the porthole, loser.”

 

“All I can see is that blasted beer cabin,” Francis sighed. The dynamics in the air shifted a little before he spoke again.“How did you know I could hang from the pocket clock?” 

 

“Guessed,” Patrick grinned, basking in Francis’ inaudible outburst of strangled vocables. “I picked up the clock when I first found it, meaning it’s a physical object, so it could wrap around the wall-thingy. And you came out of it, so I assumed you could, you know, touch it. With your ankles.”

 

“‘ _ So it could wrap around the wall-thingy _ ’, what are you, a uneducated  _ child _ ?”

 

“I was just trying to explain my point,” Patrick muttered, before using what little arm muscle puberty had gifted him to pull himself up an inch, receiving a view of the deck. “They’re all going back inside. In a few minutes, we should be safe-”   
  


“A few minutes?!”

 

“Yeah, well we should just be sure-”

 

“A few heckdecking minutes?” he cried again. “I am suspended from the gunwale of this ship by a ficketing clock!”

 

“Gunwale?” Patrick repeated, moving the sound from one cheek to the other. 

 

“It’s the outer wall of a ship, dimwit.”

 

“Gunwale!” Patrick kicked his legs out, barely missing Francis’ broomstick neck. “See, I’m learning. I’ll be sailing in no time!”

 

“Course you will, Captain,” Francis draweled. “But the thing is, I don’t have the ankle strength to pull myself up, and you can’t  _ fracking  _ touch me!”

 

“Ah.” Patrick acknowledged the issue with a small nod. “Guess you’ll have to drop into the ocean.”

 

“Patrick.”

 

“Or swing into the cabin,” Patrick suggested, pulling himself up onto the abandoned deck. “I’ll open the porthole?”

 

There was a pause.

 

“I hate you.”   
  


“I’ll go open the porthole then.” Patrick began to walk towards the hatch, before stealing himself a moment he couldn’t resist, calling back: “Hang tight.”

  
  


*

  
  


“So, the pocket clock is the only physical object you can touch?” 

 

“I don’t know, Patrick,” Francis murmured, leaning back against one of the beer barrels that had been pushed into the corner, stumbling for a moment as his legs dipped through it, before regaining his balance with a shake of the head. “They didn’t exactly give me a handbook before throwing me into the heckdecking clock.”

 

“Who didn’t?”

 

“Grace in space, Patrick, I _ don’t know _ .”

 

“Right, course you don’t.” 

 

The two boys stood, fascinated with their feet for a minute. 

 

“What about the ground?” Patrick insisted, leaping forwards, hands thrown out.  _ I’ve never met a soul before.  _ “How do you walk?”

 

“I-” Francis broke off, scowling at his boots. They were hovering, not an inch from the ground, yet...not actually touching it. 

 

“Mother hen, that’s cool,” Patrick breathed, kneeling down to get a closer look.

  
“Shut up, go away, Patrick,” Francis groaned, his words pushing them both back into flickering silence. 

 

The grooves in the barrels became  _ so  _ interesting. 

 

“So, uh,” Patrick began, uneasily. “What are we supposed to do until nightfall?”

 

“Dance,” Francis said with such raw intensity that Patrick didn’t know whether to take him seriously.

 

“Do you, uh...like to dance-”

 

“Shut up, Pat.”

 

Patrick was sure his stomach had crawled into his throat. Lots of bile. Lots of friends’ parents thinking they knew him.

 

“Please don’t call me Pat,” he begged, dragging his hands down his cheeks. “Or Patty, of Patter-Cake, or P, or Rick-”

 

“So  _ Ick _ ’s okay?”

 

“Francis,” Patrick warned, holding up a finger. “Patrick or Trick, those are the only two names I respond to.”   
  


Francis cocked his head to the side. “T...Trick?”

 

Patrick was unsure of how to proceed, knowing in his tiny, cholesterol-pumped heart that Francis was about to mock him, in some way or another. “...Yeah”

 

“That’s adorable.” He said it like a fact. 

 

“My sister started it.” Patrick shrugged, cringing at that familiar feeling of the melanin in his cheeks being defeated in combat by rushing blood. 

 

“Can I continue it?” Francis asked, honestly. His eyes were thinner, pushed down by a heavy brow, and his mouth was scrunched into a knot of rope.  _ He squints when he’s honest. _

 

“Only if I can call you Francois,” Patrick said, internally rolling his eyes at how unconfident his claim sounded. He needed to work on assertion. 

 

“No.” Francis sung the word, quipping it at the end with his lips, letting the smile linger in his warm, golden eyes for a second. Then the ice returned.  _ Defense mechanism. _

 

Patrick’s mind jaded with jealousy; a defense mechanism was something he’d never had. 

 

“But you can call me Fran.”   
  


The laugh escaped Patrick’s mouth _ by accident _ . Of course, Francis didn’t take it this way, and proceeded to throw imaginary rocks at Patrick. How did he know?:

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Throwing imaginary rocks at you.”

 

Patrick held up his hands. “Look, I’m sorry, it’s just...it’s sort of a pretty name.”

 

“ _ And _ .”

 

“It doesn’t suit you.”

 

Francis narrowed his eyes, fuelled with venom.  _ He also squints when he’s mad, learn the difference.  _

 

“I mean,” Patrick amended. “I meant that you’re fiercer than that. Fiercer than a pretty name. 

 

“Then name me.”

 

_ This has to be a trap. There’s no way that this is not a trap. _

 

“You know what?” Patrick began to unbutton his waistcoat, then bent down to his satchel. He pulled out the scarves belonging to both himself, and his father. “I like Francis.”   
  


“Really?” Francis watched with a raised eyebrow as Patrick knotted the scarves together, and placed them on the planked floor. 

 

“Yeah,” Patrick sighed, resting down, letting his head fall onto the hand-crafted scarf-pillow. “Goodnight, Francis.”   
  


“Don’t you mean good afternoon?”

 

“Well, since we’re going to be sailing at night,” Patrick said. “I guess sleeping during daylight will be the only option.”

 

“Oh,” Francis said. “Okay...good-day, then, Trick.”   
  


“Good-day, Fran.”

  
  


*

 


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ Chapter Four ~

 

“Goodnight.”    
  


“Goodnight.” 

 

“Lovely sky, tonight.”

 

“Let’s just get on with this, Patrick,” Francis sighed, striding towards the  _ helm _ .  _ Front of ship _ .  _ Bow _ . His feet didn’t even need to touch the floor for him to walk with such aggressive purpose.

 

“You called me Trick last day,” Patrick noted, skipping up to the  _ helm  _ to join Francis. 

 

“It’s called yesterday.” Francis closed his eyes, letting the moonlight ripple over his cheekbones, as he leant back against the wall...uh, gunwale. His back wasn’t touching the wood.  _ Mother hen, he must have core muscles like an iron sword.  _

 

“Whatever,” Patrick replied, popping the  _ t  _ against his tongue, as he set his hands on the wheel. The knobs at the end of each spoke reached out to his arm-span, the top of the wheel extending above his head. It was a stretch to turn, but after a few tries his grip tightened, and the burning in his shoulders reduced to a subtle throb. 

 

“Okay, so this is just like driving an automobile,” Francis said. “It’s all cogs and gears.”

 

“No steam engine technology?”

 

Francis scoffed. “Of course there’s steam engine technology.”

 

“Right.” Patrick nodded, pulling down on the handles until the wheel turned smoothly in his grip. “Thing is, I’ve never driven an automobile.”   
  


“What?”

 

“I’m an assistant-chimney-sweep in a post-communist city, we receive enough money from the council to eat,” Patrick explained. “There’s no allowance in the stipend for luxuries. Automobiles are manufactured as a council-given occupation, and are gifted to those with a council-given occupation that includes the need for such a vehicle.”

 

“Post-communist...what has the world come to?” Francis exclaimed. “I was born into a capitalist, royalist society. My family were socialites. Technology such as automobiles was just being put into practice. My family was one of the first to own one.” He shook his head. “Your world is strange to me.”   
  


“I never learnt history,” Patrick admitted, gripping the wheel in two fists. “My learning mother was educated in literature. I learnt poetry of the sea, not the origins of it.”

 

“I assume a learning mother is like...a nanny?” Francis asked. “Some sort of educator, yes?”

 

“Yes, she would impart on us all of her knowledge. It is one of the most beneficial of council-given occupations,” Patrick said, his eyes locked onto the arising white of his knuckles. “Of course, all occupants receive the same stipend, in theory. Reality is, there’s tiers. Assistant-chimney-sweep? Bottom tier. Learning mother? Top tier. It also included what the council would deem ‘ _ necessities _ ’ for the occupation, but we called them ‘ _ gifts _ ’.”

 

“I suppose we had tiers too, yet much less...formal.” Francis kicked one ankle over the other, barely grazing the deck. “It was a class system. Aristocrats, like my mother. The bourgeois, like our nannies and servants and the families of my friends. And then...Pirates. Like my father. Like me.”

 

“You certainly act like an aristocrat.”   
  


Francis smiled with a venom that wasn’t directed at Patrick. “A mother’s touch.”   
  


“I know what you mean,” Patrick muttered.  _ Filthy Elchasians _ . What a load of shucks.

 

“Now,” Francis began, uncrossing his ankles. “To navigate the night, a Pirate reads the stars. But for now, I’m just going to tell you where to go. So pull that lever behind the wheel.”

 

Patrick stood on his toes, and leant over the righthand side of the wheel. A long, copper rod was hidden behind the spokes of the wheel. Patrick pulled it down, marvelling at the cranking sensation beneath his fingers; he could feel the moving mechanism of clockwork through the lever. 

 

The ship roared to life, grumbling in clouds of grey ash against a darker night.

 

_ Grey _ , Patrick mused.  _ Almost like London _ . 

  
  


*

  
  


“So there are rudders at the stern of the boat. On the underside,” Francis said, brushing back the waves of his hair that the wind had been audacious enough to blow out of place. “That’s what the wheel controls. You move the wheel, the rudders move, and the ship alternates in direction. Capiche?”

 

“Your peach is just fine,” Patrick assured, cranking the wheel to one side to test this new information. He heard the creak of turning fins underneath and the whir of the internal mechanism, before the ship shifted its weight and continued its course, now sailing to the right. 

 

“Gorgeous,” Francis congratulated, looking down over the gunwale, smiling into the water. “The balance is astounding. You’re really getting the hang of this, Trick.”

 

“Thank you, Fran.”

 

“This is only half of being a Pirate, though,” Francis reminded. 

 

“Of course, how could I forget the other half? Beer and women and theft.” Patrick finished with a sly smile.

 

“Never theft, the myth that we steal treasure is just that,” Francis said. “A myth.”

 

Patrick doubted that, seeing as the other two had been proven to be true by Vlad’s  _ language  _ in regards to Maria, the barmaid, and the _ indulgent supply of beer barrels _ in the cabin. 

 

“Anyway, I was referring to navigation,” Francis continued. “You’ll need a spyglass, a map of the constellations, and a good eye for spotting them.”

 

“So, no eye patch?”

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“ Īe.”   
  


“You speak Japanese?” Francis raised an eyebrow. Did he really think Patrick that uncultured that it was such a shock he knew the odd phrase from another language, or two. 

 

“Barely,” Patrick assured, steering the wheel with one hand. The other hand he cupped around his left eye, imitating a spyglass. The stars were all the same to him: pinpricks of white on a black, oil canvas. Life imitates art. And Patrick steals interesting quotes about the night sky from his sister’s journal. “What about you?”

 

“Yeah, I speak French.”   
  


“How much?”

 

“Fluent,” Francis said with a shrug. That was so like him, feigning humbleness over his snide smugness. Patrick knew his game. He’d known him for a day, and he was already aware that Francis was even playing one. 

 

“You’re bilingual? Wow, I wish.” Patrick whistled through his teeth. He had ‘busy’ to thank for his lack in linguistics, or maybe his father was really the culprit to blame. It was rare a day passed, now, without his mother spouting her regrets about not forcing him to teach ‘the kids’ his native tongue. Patrick understood, ‘busy’ was more demanding of attention that him. Yet, the thought of holding fluency in Korean was as appealing as any other form of art. 

 

“It was my mother’s fault,” Francis said, like it was a promise. “She would only speak to us in French until we learn to speak it back. It wasn’t an art form for her. It was a necessity.”

 

“But you’re lucky for it, now,” Patrick stated, blinking through the rapid descent of darkness. The sky was blackening with every breath. “You hold power over two nations.”

 

“Three,” Francis corrected. “If you count Elchas.”

 

“What tongue do they speak in?”

 

“English, mostly,” Francis said. “But it’s like an entirely new world. A world built of parchment and rivers and knowledge. They feed from  _ ideas _ , Trick. It’s like currency to them.”

 

“Sounds fascinating.”

 

“I’ll take you there, maybe.”

 

“No need,” Patrick declared, clutching the wheel with both hands. “I can sail myself.”

  
  


*

  
  


“I think I might have actually learnt something, tonight,” Patrick admitted, as he settled down on the plethora of cotton blankets. The candles stuffed into the wall sconces were burning with a subdued aura of gold, reflecting off the metallic orange of Patrick’s hair. 

 

_ A redheaded Asian _ , Francis mused. _ How spectacularly peculiar _ . 

 

“Really?” was all he said aloud.

 

“My sailing shall be perfection, Francois,” he insisted, tugging on a blanket so that it rested over his shoulders. “It all comes down to your navigation skills. And if you know where the shucking shucks to look.”

 

“First of all, where did you get those blankets? Yesterday you had nothing but a scarf for a pillow,” Francis noted, gazing down at the bed that Patrick had crafted for himself. He was cushioned in layer upon layer of woven cotton, his cheeks sinking into the makeshift mattress as if it were silk and duck feathers. “Secondly, my navigation skills can not be contested against. I, unlike you, am a qualified Junior Sea Captain. The problem is: which island shall we start exploring?”   
  


“Okay, firstly, this is clearly two scarves,” Patrick said, mocking the format of Francis’ previous statement. “B, I suppose you better start mapping the most likely islands. Chop, chop, chump.”

 

“Please employ consistency,” Francis sighed, exhaustion buckling his knees.  _ Do souls even sleep? Can they sleep? Can I lie down if I can’t touch the ground? _ “Your listing. You said firstly, followed by B. Do you know how infuriating that is?”

 

“Good-day, Francois.”

 

“It’s. Fran.” Francis retorted, grinding his teeth in between the syllables.

 

“Of course. Good-day Franny.”

 

“Good-day, dimwit.”

  
  


*


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ Chapter Five ~

“Eva?” 

 

Evie paused mid-swing, letting her sword fall to her side. She waited. 

 

“...Eva?”

 

Sighing, Evie sheathed the blade, flinging the doors of the ballroom open, to see one of the crew cowering like a lost woodland creature in the hallway. 

 

“Cantis?” Evie crossed her arms, waiting for the sailor to speak. “Cantis, what is it?”   
  


“Captain’s looking for you, Eva,” Cantis replied after a moment of intense staring on Evie’s part, and, yet-again, more cowering from Cantis.

 

“He could have come and found me himself,” Evie said through her teeth, souring a little at how the bite of her tongue sent roiling fear through Cantis’ shoulders. Shucks, Evie really had a way with people. “I was practising”   
  


“He’s busy, your...your…”

 

“Just call me Evie, Cantis.”   
  


“Captain calls you Eva.”   
  


“Captain’s a moron,” Evie spat, pulling the black ribbon from her hair so that it tumbled over her shoulders in sunset waves. Maybe she was being a little dramatic. Maybe she didn’t care. “And you’ve interrupted my flow, now. I’m going to eat.”

 

“Captain asks why you didn’t ask to stay in London Town, Eva,” Cantis whimpered, his grey eyes the size of a spyglass lens. “Or bring your...uh, hum...company with you.”

 

“Captain shouldn’t have sent a mop boy like you to pry into my  _ personal  _ business,” Evie responded, ignoring how her voice raised at the mention of the subject, ignoring how, when she stormed past Cantis, she could almost hear his hatred for her in the way he gasped. “Good day!”

 

She crashed the door of her bedroom into the wall and flung herself onto the bed, eyes burning into the pillow. She had never been one to cry. 

 

The room still smelt of it all. A mirage glimpsed through the edges of a broken looking glass. 

 

The room. London. Everything she’d left behind. 

 

_ Evie’s hands ran over the boning of the corset, her fingers tangling in the lacing and ripping it open. She paused, anxious to let her fingers touch the bare skin. Not yet. She’d been flying in the wind too long, stood at the helm with her arms thrown wide and her hair tearing out behind her.  _

 

_ “I’m so cold,” she whispered into the darkness, clenching her fists, willing a fire to crackle between her knuckles. If only magic lived past the novels on her shelf.  _

 

_ “Mm, you’ve been outside,” Maria said, taking Evie’s hands in her own, rubbing them together as if she were trying to start a fire. “Sailing?” _

 

_ “Yes.” Evie smiled into Maria’s hair. In the humble candle light, it looked as dark as the night sky. “Just around the port. I wish you wouldn’t stay.” _ __   
  


_ “And I wish you wouldn’t leave,” Maria countered. “But I have a life here, Evie...a father, friends.” _

 

_ “I’ve never met your friends.” _

 

_ “The Glass siblings I think you’ll like,” she muttered. “The others...they’re barely friends.” _

 

_ “You still have more than me, Ria.” _ __   
  


_ “You have a whole crew who admire you, Evie,” Maria said, fingers fiddling with the buttons of Evie’s jacket, before finally deciding to unbutton them. _

 

_ “Ria, they’re all afraid of me,” Evie cried, wincing as the sound bounced off the walls.  _

 

_ “You’re intimidating, babe,” Maria said with a chuckle, as she pushed Evie’s jacket off by the shoulders. “My fire warrior.” _

 

_ Evie just shook her head, before taking Maria’s shoulders in her hands, pushing her down onto the bed, as gently as old parchment.  _

 

_ “Is there no one.” Maria reached up for a kiss. “No one in the crew.” And another. “Who has warmed to you yet?” _

 

_ “The respect me, but they don’t like me,” Evie sighed, cupping Maria’s face in her palms. “I wish you wouldn’t stay. Run away with me. I have a Pirate ship. We could go anywhere.” _

 

_ “First of all,” Maria began. “It’s not your Pirate ship. Secondly- who’s that in the doorway?” _

 

_ Evie threw a glance behind her, stiffening at the imposing silhouette entering the room. “Who’s this?” _ __   
  


_ “Father-” Evie began, but was cut off by a swift hand movement.  _

 

_ “Who is she, Eva?” her father pressed, looming over the bed with such a rigid purpose that Evie almost felt unnerved. Almost.  _

 

_ “Father, she’s...I just…” _ __   
  


_ “Are you not going to introduce me to your girlfriend?” _

 

_ “She’s not my girlfriend,” Evie blurted, frowning down at the words she’d let fall into her hands. They’d been twisted on her tongue, lost in the forest of teeth and now, looking down into her palms, the intention had been mutated. All wrong. Wrong. _

 

_ “Right,” Maria said stiffly. “I should. I should go home-” _ __   
  


_ “No, I mean,” Evie interrupted, trying to sort the meanings before she spoke, realigning the puzzle to fit her best intentions. “She’s my...I mean she’s more than that.” _

 

_ Maria tilted her head to one side. “What am I, Evie?” _

 

_ “I’ve never been good with words.” _

 

And maybe if she was, things would have been different. Maybe her bed sheets wouldn’t feel so impossibly lonely.

 

Evie buried her face into the pillow. “Maybe not. You have a father, Maria. Oh, right, and friends. They’re much more important, of course. Much more important than me.”

 

As it turned out, maybe Evie was one to cry. 

  
  


*

  
  


Captain Blackard ran a hand across his chin, grazing the stubble with his fingers. 

 

He checked the stars, then checked them again. 

 

“Very odd,” he noted, pulling a folded map out of the pocket of his breeches. “It’s not much, but I swear I threw the anchor down about a mile back.”

 

“Very odd, indeed, Cap’in,” Vlad agreed, running a hand along the gunwale. “Maybe the beau’y just...drifted forwards, Cap’in?”

 

“Impossible, Vlad,” Captain Blackard scorned, stalking over to the plaited rope thrown over the side of the ship. It equalled a forearm in thickness, and when pulled, was tougher to break that solid iron. “The rope is the strongest material we’ve got. And the anchor weighs more than the entirety of the crew.”   
  


“Have you considered the possibility tha’...young Eva, Cap’in-”

 

“She’d never sail without the Captain’s permission, Vlad.”

 

“But, Cap’in…” Vlad shrugged, letting his gaze wander across the rosey evening sky, rather than meeting Blackard’s harsh stare. 

 

Eva was menacing and power-hungry, and she’d swindled her way into the top ranks with fire in her eyes. Blackard didn’t doubt for a minute that, at the first opportunity, she’d snatch the Captain’s title from him with a flick of her sword and a snide apology. But she wasn’t a liar. 

 

Still, here Vlad stood, a world of knowledge on his young shoulders, casting the blame on Blackard’s best Pirate. “She be the only one who can sail out of the crew, Cap’in.”

 

“It’s another impossibility,” Captain Blackard dismissed, tossing the rope aside, marching back over to the hatch. “As unlikely a stranger sailing Atlantica.  _ Now get to bed _ .”

  
  


*

 


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~ Chapter Six ~

Patrick woke up to Francis floating over his head, legs crossed, six foot above the ground. 

 

“Right,” Patrick said, staring up at Francis, who had now, apparently, become sort of airbending genie. “I’m hungry.”   
  


“Tough,” Francis said, glaring down at Patrick as he crossed under Francis’ legs. “Aren’t you going to ask how I got up here?”   
  


“Nope.”

 

“Of course you’re not,” Francis sighed, floating across to the door, as if a magic carpet were placed under his crossed legs. “Dimwit.”

 

“Please stop that,” Patrick said as he pushed the door open, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention as The-Floating-Miracle hovered behind him. “It’s disturbing.”   
  


“It’s innovative,” Francis corrected. “Besides, you’re just envious, because you can’t levitate.”

 

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Patrick asked, humour seeping through the edges of his mouth. Well, what was a boy to do? His attractive antagonist was drifting above his head like a cloud. It was hard not to find the comedy in the situation. “Did you check if the crew were asleep?”

 

“What did you expect me to do?” Francis demanded. “Float around the outside of the ship, peeping through their portholes.”   
  


“No, but if we’re going to-”   
  


“I don’t have that much control, Trick,” Francis continued. “It took me the whole day to learn how to keep aloft.”

 

“You...you didn’t sleep?”

 

“I don’t know if I can.”

 

“Shuckers,” Patrick cursed under his breath as he clambered up to the helm. 

 

“Shuckers, indeed.”

 

Patrick took the wheel in both hands, used to the smoothness of the polished rosewood beneath his palms, accustomed to the vast size of it, the width he had to stretch his arms to, the fact that sometimes he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach it. 

 

“You look more at ease,” Francis commented, uncrossing his legs so that they swung down below him, bent at the knee in a sitting position. Patrick wondered if the air was giving any resistance back, or if Francis just had _ abnormally muscular  _ legs. “At the wheel. You’re in control. You understand the harmony of the vessel and the sea, or, at least...you’re learning to.”

 

“I’m definitely still in the learning phase, Fran.”

 

“But you’re progressing,” Francis countered with a smile. “Trick.”

 

“You’re smiling,” Patrick said as he hauled the wheel down to the left, veering past an imaginary iceberg. Yes, he knew it was unrealistic for an iceberg to be in the region of a temperate ocean, but the novelty of make-believe helped him feel as if the whole situation were more real. “It’s freaking me out.”

 

“That I’m smiling?”

 

“You never smile.”

 

“You’ve known me for what, five minutes?”   
  


“More like two days.”   
  


“More like...dégage!”

 

Patrick paused, barely missing an iceberg as he let his hands relax on the wheel. “Are you swearing at me? In french?”   
  


“Forgive me, but I thought it politer.” Francis smirked. “Since you wouldn’t understand, dimwit.”

 

“Are you going to tell me something productive or not?” Patrick said with a sigh. Arguing with Francis was like singing underwater. Both  _ counter _ productive, and a cursed way to die.

 

“Okay,” Francis said, accepting the challenge with a sullen bottom lip. “I borrowed your...um...it’s like a spy glass, but very, very small.”

 

“My...monoculator?”

 

“Probably,” Francis continued. “I couldn’t touch it, but I placed the pocket clock in front of it, bent down, and saw that the grooves in the metal skin...they’re...very specifically placed.”

 

“Your point-”   
  


“Coordinates, Trick.” Francis clapped his hands together, kicking his legs beneath him. “They look like coordinates.”

 

“So...we actually have somewhere to go?” Patrick tried to filter the excitement out of his voice. This really was a Pirate adventure.

 

“This pocket clock is the only thing they left behind!” Francis sang the words like they were poetry, cuddling them in the dimples around his mouth. This treasure sure meant a lot to him. 

 

“That who left behind?”

 

“Oh, the um...the Pirates. The...treasure keepers?”

 

“Right, so that means-”

 

“Start turning that wheel, Trick, we’re going west!”

  
  


*

  
  


When they arrived at the island, Patrick had to blink a few times.

 

_ One _ , nope, he wasn’t dreaming.

 

_ Two _ , yep, the sand was definitely black. 

 

“It’s a bit…” Patrick paused, shredding his fringe with his fingers. “Dark.”

 

“The natives don’t notice,” Francis assured, gliding down from the deck like an angel descending into hell. He lost control of the levitation at the last minute, stumbling in the air and falling into the shape of a crumpled handkerchief a few inches about the onyx shore. He looked up at Patrick, wiping the fear from his face with the back of his hand. “Um, they’re blind.”   
  


“That’s interesting,” Patrick said as he scaled down the side of the ship, missing every foothold, and having to cling to the portholes with his hands each time he tripped. 

 

“Of course, they’re all dead now,” Francis mused as Patrick dropped softly onto the sand. “Extinct. What fascinated me about the inhabitants of Rhiminea, though, was that they were only blind during the day. They saw darkness as we see light.”

 

“Incredible,” Patrick breathed.

 

“Also.” Francis leaned in, as if his next words were a filthy secret he was entrusting to Patrick’s ears only. “Their floristry is incredible.”   
  


It seemed the flowers had been listening. Almost instantly, the book-sized, tear-shaped petals of each flower flickered like damp light bulbs. First, white. Then, as the flickering settled into fixed illumination, the colours became intense, fluorescent shades of candy. 

 

They trailed across the black grass just behind the sand, crawling up the trees that swung on flexible trunks miles into the clouds above. The whole island was lit up like a carnival ground: a circus of flowers. 

 

“I don’t even...I hope to mother hen that the treasure is here, because I sure as shucks don’t want to go anywhere else,” Patrick said, running his hands through the sand, rubbing the grain between his thumb and forefinger. It was finer than sugar, and softer than freshly-washed cotton. He closed his eyes, letting his mother’s smile slip through the light of the flowers. 

 

“I tracked the coordinates to here, but it didn’t match completely,” Francis admitted, walking forwards across the air, frowning when he couldn’t kick pockets into the sand. “But since I’ve been here before...I didn’t bother consulting a map, just...it seemed familiar, so-”

 

“Fran, stop, you’re rambling,” Patrick said with a laugh, letting the sand fall through his fingers. “So how do we look for the treasure?”

 

“I suppose we shall just...walk around?” Francis shrugged, letting a cheek rest on his right shoulder. Patrick wondered if he could feel the satin of his coat. Was it as soft as it had been when he had lived? Or could he feel nothing, able to nestle into his clothing, but not experience it’s texture?

 

“And if we find nothing?”

 

“Then we’ve had a nice walk,” Francis said. “It’s a beautiful night, Trick, just enjoy the stars. And the flowers.”

  
  


*

  
  


“I have a sister,” Francis began as they ventured through the forest, letting his voice stretch out over the lush scenery before continuing, licking his lips once this caught Patrick’s attention. “She isn't like me, not like us.”

 

At the mention of us, Patrick’s cheeks filled with cherry wine. Francis noted this. 

 

“Annabelle fell into the aristocratic shadow of my mother,” he continued, knitting his fingers together, caressing the air around them until it formed mast rope at his knuckles. There, he was securing rope. Francis exhaled. “Moulding herself around a paper mache woman...the ghost and memory of her-”

 

“Your mother wasn't around?”

 

“She and my father had different...perspectives.” 

 

He was dusting around the edges of the problem, of course, but Patrick nodded in understanding. 

 

“I've acquired the feeling, Patrick, that your world, modern society…”

 

Patrick let out a single laugh. A clap of thunder. “It's different.”

 

“You, you're...uh…” Francis grasped around the trees for words, but all the provided were flowers. “A poof.”

 

“Oh,” Patrick said. “Yeah...uh, yes, pansexual...you?”

 

“That didn't exist in my time,” Francis replied curtly, turning away from Patrick’s glare. He wasn't going to elaborate. He didn't owe Patrick anything.

 

Except this adventure. But they'd needed each other, as Patrick himself had stated.

 

“I think my society is more...open minded,” Patrick decided, tucking a tuft of ginger behind his ear. A funny colour, really. So bright…like a burnt sunset. No, a  _ burning  _ sunset.

 

“No prejudice?”

 

“I wouldn't say...that, but it's more...advanced?” Patrick shrugged. “I don't know, my mother acts like she's from the Renaissance, though.”

 

“She's not accepting of you?”

 

Patrick shrugged, nodding slightly, before conflicting himself with a headshake. He was nothing but conspicuous. Pff. “It's more about my sister.”

 

Francis paused mid-step, tilting his head to one side. “She's queer, as well?”

 

“Mm hmm.”

 

“Right.” 

 

Francis unfastened one of the buttons on his jacket, tracing the lines of molded brass, before dropping his fingers to the sharp gold embroidery. It had been his father’s coat, back when he had been a Junior Sea Captain. 

 

“I have one more question.” Francis spoke with a sheep in his mouth and a rabbit in his eyes. “It's particularly...embarrassing...I just...I overheard one of the crew members speaking while you were asleep, and…”

 

Patrick’s dimples became valleys. “Go on, Francois.”

 

Francis swallowed the ocean. “Okay, so you know so much about this new world?”

 

“Right.”

 

“Could you tell me what a night woman is?”

 

Patrick’s mouth whirled into a penny. Was he...stifling a laugh? Francis shook his head, determined to defend himself against this  _ mockery _ . 

 

“Well, they keep talking about them and I don’t know, things were different back in my era, everyone was every time of day, there weren’t specific day and night peopl-”

 

“No it’s a term,” Patrick interrupted with a sly grin, a brilliant crescent moon of condescension cut into his cheeks. “There are women who work in the night, they’ll smile for a halfpenny, kiss you for a double. It’s an old profession but it’s still around for some reason...although, there are rumors that they used to do much worse for a larger price.”

 

“Worse, like?...”

 

“They’d climb into your bed?”

 

“Would they wed you first?”

 

Patrick snorted.  _ Delightful.  _ “Don’t be silly, they couldn’t wed everyone, could they?”

 

Containing the ascending flames that crawled up the side of his neck, Francis turned into the mild wind, a subtle breath that held no ghost of winter’s icy hand. 

 

“People didn't do such things,” he muttered into the flowers, winking back at their luminescence. 

 

“No, they just threw rocks at people that were different.”

 

Francis shrugged off a laugh, determined to preserve the satisfaction a bolder reaction would have provided Patrick with, clutching it in his palms, quashing it into a silent chuckle. 

 

“Never rocks Patrick,” he said. “Never rocks.”

 

*

  
  


“As pretty as this island is,” Patrick said, taking a moment to linger over the lush foliage of the Rhiminean coast. The moonlight merged with the luminescent flowers, twinkling in the mysterious, rust brown of Patrick’s eyes. “It’s clear there’s nothing here.”

 

“Then climb aboard, sailor,” Francis replied, hesitant for a moment. How very odd. It wasn’t as if Francis was uneager to leave, finding the location of the...treasure was certainly his top priority. 

 

Yet...something about how Patrick walked among the flowers like he was seeing colour for the first time, while simultaneously appearing as if he’d finally found his true home after years of imprisonment in a world of grey. He matched the scenery: burning orange and a smile like blazing sunlight. 

 

“How are you going to get on the ship?” Patrick asked through a series of grunts, as he heaved himself up the side of the ship. 

 

“How did you climb onto it in the first place?”   
  


“I uh, walked on?” Patrick called down. “It was only a few steps above ground level. I didn’t have to...heave myself up the entire height of it.”

 

“Well, to answer your question,” Francis said, rubbing his hands together. Strange how they felt as they had always felt. Strange how the skin was as ragged as ever, calloused after years of tugging mast ropes and steering at the helm. Strange how, to him, nothing hand changed. His hands were as consistent as ever. Yet, to anyone else, they were as untouchable as dust mites in strong air. “I was planning on...levitating onto the deck.”   
  


“Then why don’t you?”

 

Francis grunted, squeezing his eyes shut, willing the minute distance between his soles and the earth to expand faster than a looping universe. Yet weakness was all that was left, cowering, in its place.

 

Just as he had suspected. 

 

“I knew it,” he muttered, shaking out his arms. Still, the muscles sagged in his shoulders, his calves burned like a hundred stars, and the unsizable hole undulating in his chest blew him to the ground.

 

“Fran!” Patrick cried from the deck, his legs now swinging over the edge.  _ Oh, no _ , Francis thought. Patrick had spent too much energy climbing the heckdecking thing, Francis wasn’t about to grant him an excuse to climb down again.

 

“I’m...fine,” Francis lied, rolling over on a layer of air inches from the floor. “Satisfactory.” 

 

He was not, in fact, satisfactory in the slightest.

 

The hole, the crevice, the misplaced puzzle piece inside his chest, seemed to be originating from the source of the pocket clock. Francis ripped it off, throwing it into the sand with a soft thud.

 

Immediately, the hole tore into a new universe. A ficketing, new sun burst in his chest. He cast his gaze to his hands. Fading, fading faster than evening light.

 

“Hiberjiberts, I’m dying,” Francis gasped.

 

“Don’t be so dramatic.”   
  


“The pocket...the pocket clock...Trick...Trick, the pocket clock.”

 

Night descended on him. 

  
  


*

 


End file.
